The Shakespearean Murderer
by Tony Vernon-Smith
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been overworking himself again. Doctor Watson decrees a holiday. But since when has Holmes ever been able to rest?


The Adventure of the Shakespearean Murderer

It was in the year 1894 that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was engaged in a great many cases over a three month period. The affair of the Hardway family, the mysterious forces moving behind the death of Mr. James Tracy, the famous social reformer, and the horrifying story of the granite knife were the most notable of these, along with other matters of less importance. By the end of this time the strain of constant overwork took its toll upon my friend; he grew paler, gaunter, his cheekbones more pronounced and his light eyes the brighter for the dark circles under them. And yet he brushed off my medical remonstrances and drove himself even harder than before.

It was on August 11th that I at last decided upon any definite course of action. I had called upon him in his lodgings (for I had not yet returned to Baker Street) and found him in a severe nervous state. After some acrimonious discussion I persuaded him to take a short holiday to give him time to recover from the strain he had brought upon himself. Thus it was that we boarded the steamship _Friesland_ a few days later, and so became involved in an investigation that was to be the talk of England for some time to come.

For some time all went well. Holmes had brought along some books upon anthropometry as defined by Monsieur Bertillon. He had evidently taken my injunction to rest to heart, for he spent most of his time in his room and was not inclined to socialise with the other passengers, or with me, for that matter. For myself, I had recently begun a small work upon a certain medical condition, and so kept myself occupied in the writing of it.

Early one morning, however, I was awakened by a hollow drumming sound: someone beating upon Holmes' door. His room was adjacent to mine, and I heard his sleepy voice, followed by a man's. High-pitched it was with excitement and agitation, but low in volume; I could not catch any words out of the murmur. After a few moments it was cut short, and I heard a slamming, jingling noise, like that of a dresser being hurriedly opened and shut. By this time I was fully awake, and got out of bed to pull on a dressing gown, feeling that if there was to be action I should be called upon to accompany. I had scarcely tied the belt round my waist when Holmes' familiar tap came at my own door.

"Watson," said he, in a soft voice which yet held a thrill of excitement.

"Yes?"

"I should advise you to get dressed. There's been murder done, and we're to take a look at the scene. The game's afoot!"

In less than five minutes I was prepared. Holmes and another man were standing in the dim-lit passageway, whispering together. At the creak of the door hinges, they both turned.

"Ah, good," said my friend. His clothes were dishevelled, as were the other man's, and his black hair had been hurriedly slicked back. "It seems, my dear fellow, that the fates are against us, and that we shall not spend a few peaceful days upon this ship after all. Come along; we have to make haste."

"I told you, Mr. Holmes," said the other man as we hurried along the hall, our footsteps muffled by the red carpeting, "I told you that as we cannot contact the police, and as your reputation is well known--"

"Quite so, quite so. Now, tell me all you can about this--what was his name?"

"Theodore Ruskin, sir. A politician."

"Ah, a politician. Such men are bound to have enemies. Well?"

"Well, sir, he was just leaving England to--but here we are, sir, at his room. I hope the both of you have strong nerves, for it's quite a ghastly sight. I have seen some things in my day, but I admit that it turned me sick."

As the man inserted a key in the lock and turned it, Holmes nudged me and pointed silently toward the floor. I glanced down and saw with horror that the russet of the carpet was stained with a deeper crimson, as was the edge of the door and the threshold. The next moment the key clicked, and we entered the room.

"Good Lord," I ejaculated involuntarily.

The hot, coppery scent of fresh blood had struck us in the face like a solid wall. Indeed, it would have been singular had it not, for much of the room was spattered and splashed with it. It was the object lying before us, however, that caught my eyes and those of my companion for some moments: the body of a man, sprawled on his back upon the floor, with his arms stretched out upon either side of him, one leg extended and one half-drawn up. He was, or rather had been, in evening dress, but now his once-crisp shirt and waistcoat were torn to ribbons and stiff with partially coagulated blood. The dead mouth in his discoloured face was open in a silent yell of agony, and with good reason: there was an enormous gaping hole in his chest, and the bone gleamed whitely through, for a large chunk of flesh had been removed with a precision that would have done credit to a surgeon.

I tore my horrified gaze away from this dreadful spectacle with an effort and glanced at Holmes. His pale face had gone a few shades whiter, his jaw was set, his mouth was a hard thin line. He remained as if turned to stone for a few moments longer; then shook himself out of his shock and began rolling up his sleeves with grim deliberation.

"You are a doctor, Watson, and I am not," said he, walking over to the body and kneeling gingerly beside it, then getting back to his feet. "See if you can determine how long ago this poor fellow met his death. Halloa, what on earth--"

I followed the direction of his eyes and saw, slashed in red upon the wall, seemingly with the tip of a knife, what seemed to be the word 'Sherlock.' It was written in a strange, jagged script, and the line connecting the 'e' and the 'r' dipped down strangely. Was this a message to my friend?

Holmes had been scowling at the wall, but now suddenly raised his eyebrows in comprehension.

"Not my name, Watson," said he, pulling forth a magnifying glass from his pocket and approaching this strange effusion. "It is the murderer's method of writing 'Shylock,' whom you may remember from Shakespeare's play 'The Merchant of Venice'. As you are aware, I am not well up in literature on a general basis, but there were some points in that particular work that were absolutely unique in the records of crime, and consequently remained in my memory. The character whose name is at present inscribed upon this wall desired, if I remember aright, a pound of another man's flesh as part of a financial agreement. He would have had it, too, but for a purely technical error in the terms which saved the intended victim's life. Quite original, that scheme; striking a gruesome bargain which seemingly no man in his right mind would take seriously, and then proceeding to carry it out under full approval of the law. If ever you lack inspiration for a criminal enterprise, Watson, I commend you to the works of Shakespeare. Hum! Done with a very thin, extremely sharp knife blade, perhaps double-edged. From what I have seen of the wound in that unfortunate man's chest, it would be in all likelihood the same weapon. Would you agree?"

I had been examining the corpse as he spoke. Now I sat back upon my heels and looked about for a rag on which to wipe my hands.

"I should certainly agree. I should also suggest that the blade was a long one, not less than six inches, and perhaps more, since he removed this section all of a piece, and as sharp as a razor, since it cut through the bone without sawing or clumsy hacking."

"Ha! The description would fit a sword beautifully; however, the days when these weapons were in common use is long past. A cane-sword would perhaps be more reasonable. The issue that confronts us now, however, is: where has this other pound of flesh disappeared to? The murderer surely did not carry it off with him. Perhaps, having made his point, he put it somewhere in here, but out of view." He scanned the room; and, seeing nothing, he rounded the bed, then pulled back with a sudden exclamation, clenching his hands. I came to his side and saw, set up upon the floor, a small scale like that of a butcher's hideously besmirched with blood; and sitting on top of it was the object for which we searched.

The needle pointed to the one-pound measure.

"Apparently," said Holmes, with a grim note in his voice, "apparently our criminal has premeditated this particular endeavour of his. Well," taking a deep breath, "let us get on with our investigation. I presume that you have finished with Theodore Ruskin?"

"Yes."

"Then ask Mr. John Nelson what he knows about the matter--Mr. Nelson is the man who came to fetch us. He is also the man who discovered the body; and he is at present in the doorway, being thoroughly ignored. I shall require your findings about the body when I am done."

His eyes narrowed and his face darkened as he got down upon his hands and knees and began to scrutinise the carpet, while I gazed about the room for some little time, so as to commit it to memory. It was small, yet comfortable, with a bureau upon one's left as one entered. Upon one's right there was a nightstand and a washbasin. This stood next to the bed, which had not been slept in. At the far end was a little desk. A cup of tea was on it, the tea bag still steeping and staining the china sepia; a pathetic reminder of a life interrupted in this violent and horrible fashion. After I had taken note of all this, I crossed to the other end of the room where John Nelson was leaning against the doorjamb. I had not yet had the chance to take a good look at him. I did so now. He was a tall, dark man of about forty-five years of age, with a moustache and strong, narrow, geometrical features of a military cast, heavily lined, which were now set in an expression of tight control as he gazed at my companion with an air of reluctant fascination.

He started and turned to me as I tapped his shoulder. "Yes?"

"I understood that you were the first to find the body. Under what circumstances?"

"Well, I had got up because I couldn't sleep and was walking down the hall to retrieve a book I had foolishly left in the dining room, when I saw the blood seeping out from under that door. I knocked and asked if anyone needed help, and received no answer; at that I thought it best to enter. The door was unlocked and the knob turned easily. I stepped in here and saw what you see. For a moment I thought I was going to be ill, but I stepped outside and took a few deep breaths and calmed down, then went back in. Of course I could see that the man was dead, and I knew equally well that he had been murdered--there is no way upon earth that one could construe such a sight into accident or suicide. I thought for a few minutes about what to do, then I thought that I might at any rate get dressed; there would be no more sleep for me no matter what happened, since if I was not questioned all night I would have dreams about it. I glanced about once more and saw that the key was in the lock, and I took it so no one else should disturb the body. Then I returned to my own room and threw on some clothes. While I was doing so, I remembered seeing you and Mr. Holmes earlier at supper; I also recalled his reputation for solving mysteries. He had undertaken a case for an acquaintance of mine--Mr. Gabriel Quinn--"

"A trifling and childishly simple affair," snapped Holmes' sardonic voice from behind the bed.

"My friend was not of that opinion. He thought you quite brilliant, Mr. Holmes," said Nelson. His ingratiating words were offset by the flat, factual tone in which he uttered them.

"Hum! Well, tell Mr. Quinn that I am immensely indebted to him for his testimonial," and he got to his feet, wiping his hands upon his jacket. "This man, our criminal, is extraordinarily cool and collected. He came into this room with galoshes, a bag, and also his knife, which was not in evidence. He had an appointment with this man Ruskin, I believe, since the latter was in evening clothes. He talked to Mr. Ruskin for a short while, then pulled out his weapon and stabbed him. Ruskin had no time to struggle; he was dead instantly, pierced through the heart. The murderer then took the scale from his bag, set it up behind the bed, cut the word 'Shylock' into the wall with the knife, and then proceeded to carry out what this somewhat bloodthirsty Shakespearean character failed to do. He then stepped over and washed his hands, his weapon, and his galoshes in this hand basin, which you will observe stands in the upper left-hand corner of the room. The weapon being of considerable length, he was compelled to take the cup upon the wash stand and pour water over it to get it clean, and in doing so let the bloody water run down and soak into the carpeting. Finally, he picked up his empty bag and marched from the room, being careful to avoid the blood upon the floor. He was a rather tall man of medium weight, who in all probability does not smoke, though Ruskin did--Havanas. What is your diagnosis upon the time of death?" He swivelled his steely eyes to me, and I had a sudden sensation that I was looking down twin gun barrels.

"Well," said I, "I should estimate Ruskin to have been dead for four hours at most."

"Good, very good. It is--" he consulted his watch, "--half-past three now, which brings the time of death from anywhere from eleven to…eight, I should say. I recall that he dined early. Have you notified the captain of these developments?" he demanded suddenly, switching his sharp gaze from me to Nelson.

"No, I have not. You see, I did not know how exactly to go about telling him, and I thought--"

"My dear sir," said Holmes, with an air of exaggerated patience, "you must always inform one of the officers before anyone else. They have an indisputable right to know what goes on aboard their ship, and especially if there has been a murder. On the other hand, you did not run shrieking out into the passage and throw the passengers into a panic."

"Well, I should say not!" cried Nelson warmly.

"I commend you for that. However, our course of action at present is to bring the unfortunate captain up to date and leave the room before someone discovers us alone in here with a murdered man."

After a prolonged argument with an exceedingly stubborn seaman, we were at last granted an interview with the captain, who was not at all pleased at being woken up at four in the morning. We explained the whole business to him, while he listened with a shocked and angry face. I could see that he took it as a personal affront to have a passenger murdered on his ship, and was not happy at having to face the ordeal of searching for a criminal.

"What shall we do with the corpse?" he asked, when we had drawn our narrative to a close. "And how shall we find who did this? If he were a man of sense he would have dropped the knife overboard."

"Not necessarily," Holmes answered. "If it were a sword-stick, for example, the man would feel quite safe; and he would feel safe anyhow, since he has covered his tracks with such expertise. The advantage of having a murder aboard a ship--"

"The _advantage_! What the devil do you mean, sir!" ejaculated the captain.

"The advantage," Holmes continued, suavely, "is that there are only a limited number of suspects; also, that the criminal cannot escape unless he were to jump overboard."

"But the body, sir!" exclaimed the captain. "And the passengers! What shall I say to them?"

"Lock up the room; let no one enter and touch nothing, except perhaps the body of this poor fellow. Say that Theodore Ruskin died of natural causes--heart attack, apoplexy, what you like. Have someone clean up that stain outside the door, and if anyone inquires about it, tell him that someone clumsily spilled something. I shall look after the murderer."

A slight flush flickered into his pale cheeks and his eyes sparked, and then they were smoothed away into the cold mask he habitually wore.

The captain stared at him for some time with knitted brows and a thoughtful air.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," said he at last, heavily, "all I can say is, it is fortunate that we have you aboard, since I don't know what I should have done otherwise."

My friend waved away the compliment with a smile.

"I suppose," the captain remarked, after another silence, "that I ought to let you three gentlemen have what rest you can. I know that I shan't get any more sleep, but I am not one that believes in the saying 'misery loves company.' You may go."

"Thank you," said Holmes, turning upon his heel and stalking out the door, Nelson and I following after. The sound of the captain's voice followed us out, incredulous, querulous, and indignant: "Good Lord! A murderer that goes by Shakespeare--a Shakespearean murderer!"

John Nelson, after many gruff apologies for the disturbance, had departed for his own quarters, leaving us outside our rooms. I followed Holmes into his and watched as he collected matches, pipe, and various pillows from the bed.

"Holmes!"

"What is it, Watson?" he returned, petulantly.

"Holmes, we have not been gone three days, and already you are involved in some wretched puzzle, and I shall not have it."

"No?"

"Not to-night, at least. Get some rest, Holmes."

"I am not tired."

"You will be if you have a nervous breakdown. You will spend weeks in bed, recovering--"

"Watson, you are becoming quite unscrupulous," said Holmes bitterly. But he set down his pipe and matches, tossing the pillows back upon the bed and removing his jacket.

I nodded as he tugged off his boots. "Good man. And now, if you will excuse me, I am going to my own room to attempt to make up for the hours lost upon this politician."

It was a trifle before ten in the morning before I saw my friend again, for I had fallen asleep almost the instant I reached my own room, and had only awakened at a quarter past nine. I had dressed, gone out into the hall, and rapped upon Holmes' door. Receiving a shouted invitation of "Come in, Watson!" I entered, and discovered him clad in his dressing gown, shaving before the little mirror which hung upon the wall.

"Ah, good morning, old fellow," said he, meeting my eyes in the glass. "I was just beginning to wonder when you would come round."

"Good morning, Holmes. But I say, how did you know it was I who knocked?"

"My dear Watson, your little tap is quite distinctive. I have listened to it for some years, and I should be dull indeed if I were to fail to recognise it at this point. To attend to business, however, there was one interesting little bit of evidence I had forgotten to show you last night; or earlier this morning, rather. You will find an envelope lying on top of the bedcovers. Kindly open it and tell me what you make of what it contains."

I did as he said, and out slid a little scrap of some thick black cloth, all stiffened and discoloured with dried blood.

"I found it clutched in Ruskin's hand," Holmes explained, flicking lather off the razor with an air of studied nonchalance quite out of keeping with his mischievous eyes. "What kind of cloth do you consider it to be made of?"

"Well," I answered slowly, feeling the texture carefully and then grimacing at the rusty smear upon my fingertips, "I should suggest it to be a piece from a waterproof or raincoat. It seems almost to be made of canvas, but it is hard to tell."

"Precisely. So I think. Taken in conjunction with the overshoes…" he left the sentence unfinished.

"What is it?"

"Theorising without data, Watson; I devise many different explanations and wait until fuller knowledge eliminates them one by one--an atrocious mental habit of mine." Holmes completed one last stroke of the razor with a flourish and cocked his head as a knock sounded upon the door, which then opened to disclose Mr. John Nelson. He was considerably neater than when we had last seen him, with a smartly cut lounge suit and a somewhat flamboyant tie, and he carried his stick under his arm.

"I beg your pardon," said he, glancing at the razor which my friend still held in his hand. "I really had no intention of disturbing you."

"Not at all," Holmes answered smoothly, crossing the room to lay the razor upon the dresser, and whisking both envelope and scrap of fabric out of my hand and into his pocket in passing. "I rather expected you to come round."

"Really? Well, to be frank, my curiosity got the better of me, and I felt that I should be compelled to ask you all the questions I could not last night."

"Very thorough of you," murmured Holmes, with a faint ripple of mockery in his tone. Nelson eyed him askance and then continued.

"Well, at any rate, have you any clue as to the identity of the villain?"

"Several. For instance, the footprints. The boots were, I believe, size eleven, which is a rather large size."

"Quite so. My own feet are size nine."

"Well then. That quite exonerates you from having committed the crime, does it not? I suspect everyone, Mr. Nelson," he added, as indignation flashed across the other's features; "it is neither an honour nor a distinction."

"An excellent sentiment," said Nelson, dryly. "But surely you are excluding the women?"

"Not at all. There was no struggle--the murder was a sudden affair. A woman could certainly have done it, though it would take a superb nerve for that extraordinary setup, a nerve usually not found in the weaker sex. And now I have a question. What is the latest news aboard the ship, since you evidently been down for some breakfast?"

"Now how the deuce--" began Nelson, but Holmes interrupted him.

"You will find that you have absentmindedly carried away a napkin from the table."

"You are a sharp fellow," remarked Nelson, smiling. "May I take a seat? Thank you. Well, the captain has evidently been most diligent in spreading the news of Theodore Ruskin's 'natural' death, for I heard not a word concerning murder. Of course, if someone _had _managed to get wind of it, I should have expected it to spread like wildfire. There would be a general panic at the thought that a vicious assassin was amongst us."

"Oh, so you believe the forces at work here are political?"

"I don't say for certain. Perhaps Ruskin was on the brink of making a most important treaty or something of the sort, and someone wished to ensure that it would not come off."

"Indeed. And what does this theory make of the allusion to the 'Merchant of Venice'?"

"It makes nothing of it. That is to say, all that business would be merely a blind."

" 'Business' is indeed the correct term," said Holmes, dryly, "for that is what the theatres call the action involved in the play, and this whole affair resembles nothing so much as a grotesque melodrama."

"In the time-honoured tradition of the Bard of Avon, what? My only hope is that he does not take after Macbeth and murder several other people."

"In my experience," said Holmes, "the more crimes you commit the greater risk you run of being caught."

" 'In your experience'?" Nelson repeated, his eyes narrowing. "What exactly is that supposed to signify, Mr. Holmes?"

"It signifies," Holmes answered, with an enigmatical smile, "that I have had a good deal of experience with crime."

"Oh," said Nelson, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. "Well--oh, it is irrelevant. To return to our subject, I have nothing else to report. What shall I do next?"

" All I require of you for now is to keep your eyes and ears open."

"Very good. I shall do that."

"Everyone aboard the ship is a suspect, barring only ourselves. Remember that when you ask questions. There is one here who would not take kindly to it."

"Right. I shall keep that in mind. Where have I put my stick? Thank you," as Holmes retrieved it from under a chair and handed it up. "Well, good day!" And with that he left the room with a brisk step, closing the door behind him. Holmes watched him go with an air of absorption, and then suddenly darted across the room to whisk fresh clothes from his carpet bag.

"Wait for me outside, Watson," said he. "We shall go to where the masses gather and utilise the subtle art of steering conversation by remarking discreetly upon Mr. Theodore Ruskin's untimely and wholly _natural _death, and ascertain when he was last seen alive."

He was soon as trim as ever, and together we ascended the companionway to view the shimmering expanse of water surrounding the ship. The day, though humid, was otherwise a fine one, with a brilliant blue sky dotted with thick fluffy clouds; the horizon, however, was edged with a towering grey and white mass. The passengers, gathered on deck to gaze over the calm water and dim green coastline just beyond it, taking deep breaths of the fresh sea air, took no notice of this intimation of coming storm, but stood about in little clusters chatting or reclined in deck chairs to argue amiably with their immediate neighbours, moving their hands languidly now and again to illustrate a point.

For some time Holmes and I loitered near the rails as the sun climbed steadily higher in the sky, the water mirroring it and casting a wavering, blue-white reflection over the shipboards and the passengers. We had decided beforehand to eavesdrop upon various conversations until we found one which could be turned to the demise of the politician--a practice which Holmes termed 'fishing'. We drew a blank upon three, but at the fourth, a knot of three overdressed dandies with crimson and vermilion cravats, their dialogue caught our ear.

"--Extremely convenient for certain politicians for him to drop off in this manner, for he was after some bargain with a certain personage who shall remain unmentioned."

Holmes darted one of his penetrating glances at the speakers, then lit a cigarette in his nonchalant way and sauntered over to the rail, nearer the discussion about the man whose murderer we were attempting to locate.

"But I say, Punt," remarked another man, "what did the old fellow die of anyhow?"

"Captain says heart failure," answered the first man, in a knowing tone. "I cannot see, however, why they have locked up the room like that. But it is no business of mine."

"It is easy enough to see why," said the second man. "He did not want a flock of morbid sightseers coming down upon the room. For as you know, he is keeping the corpse in there, not having anywhere else to put it and not wanting it to lie about in the hallway."

"That is probably so," said Punt.

"Funny thing, this," put in the third man, "him dropping off in this sudden way? I met him in the hallway at half-past ten, and he seemed in the best of health."

"Heart failure is sudden," said Punt, condescendingly. "It can take you within five minutes. But I say, I'm for a little drink. Let us see if they have anything remotely decent aboard this boat."

As they moved away, Holmes turned to me. "What do you make of that?"

"Well, it certainly corroborates Nelson's hypothesis," I replied.

"Not really," he said thoughtfully, watching the blue tobacco smoke spiral up from his cigarette and dissipate into the air. "After all, most politicians are on the brink of consummating treaties with 'personages'. It is their profession. It is akin to remarking that a doctor died while preparing to make a house call. It may have sinister overtones, but it is highly unlikely that it does."

"Well, what shall we do now?"

"I haven't an idea. This tangle seems to lead nowhere; there are too many threads." He sighed, glowered, and smoothed his hair back, flicking the end of his cigarette over the rail, then peering over the side to watch it hiss and sputter.

"Perhaps we should go down to procure some tea," I suggested. Holmes pulled himself back over the rail to gaze at me with a sardonic flicker in his eyes.

"Tea," he began derisively, "the main stay and support of every Englishman in trouble--" he broke off suddenly. His face tightened, his heavy brows drew down low over his widened eyes, his mouth pulled tight; and I knew that his razor brain had cut through the tangle to a clue. "Tea," he repeated. "Tea! Why did I not think of that before? The only solid clue, and I have overlooked it!"

"What is it?" I asked.

"There is a possibility--a distinct possibility," he went on, not seeming to hear my question. "Well, it may or may not be; at any rate, we can but try. Watson!" He had been gazing out at the sea as he spoke, but he now swung round upon me, his steely eyes glittering. "You recall how gypsies amuse themselves by pretending to read the future from tea leaves? Well, I shall surpass them. I shall deduce the _past_, and catch a very wicked villain in the process. I shall be back in a short while, with our list of suspects very much thinned out. If you grow restless, you may get out a pen and start your tale of how we caught the Shakespearean murderer. Here." He tore out some leaves of his notebook, pressed them into my hand, folded my fingers around them, and rushed down the stairs, leaving me, as well as a few other inquisitive individuals, staring after him.

I unfolded the sheets of paper he had given me, but found them quite blank, with not a letter written on them. After some puzzling, I finally decided that that was what he intended to have me begin writing my narrative on. I felt that I could do no more good standing on deck, and went down to my room to meditate upon the whole affair. Who was this man, and what was his motive for bringing death down upon the politician in so grotesque and hideous a form? Where had he gone? What sort of weapon had he used? A knife of that length could not be easily concealed. Perhaps it was a swordstick after all; perhaps someone had stolen a knife from the kitchen. One of the cooks, perhaps? I examined the possibility, but could think of no motive. Above all, why was Holmes so ecstatic at the mention of a mug of tea, which surely could have no connection whatever with the case. I racked my brain for any ray of light, but could think of nothing; giving it up in despair, I finally went and procured the latest newspaper aboard the ship, which was dated three days previously. Even so, my mind kept wandering back to the dark mystery through which we were groping.

It was some time before Holmes reappeared. I heard a clatter of footsteps, the door flew open, and then he bounded into my room and dropped onto the bed. He was laughing, the strange, cold, barking laugh I heard only when he was near triumph, and his eyes were glittering dangerously.

"We progress, Watson!" he cried. "I am by no means absolutely certain, but I am gravely suspicious. Here are two men; it must be the one or the other; and we are about to take a very long shot and confront the one--in a roundabout way. Are you aware, Watson, that there is an actor aboard?"

"Really! How odd."

"Odd indeed. Furthermore, someone heard him acclaiming the virtues of Shakespeare's plays in general and that of the 'Merchant of Venice' in particular. It seems that he has always felt sympathetic towards Shylock, admired him immensely for his clever scheme, and felt rather put out that the fellow was not allowed to carry it to completion."

"Good heavens. When did he say this?"

"A day or so before the murder, so far as I can ascertain. You see, I have been making a few inquiries of my own; and I have an advantage in that no-one save a privileged few know anything at all about this crime, so I can investigate without rousing suspicion."

"But this actor, Holmes--it sounds most incriminating."

"Not unless the man is a fool. What criminal would talk about his intended crime before he committed it? Unless, of course, he mentioned the 'Merchant of Venice' for the purpose of having us jump to that conclusion. At any rate, he may be a fool after all. That is what I must find out."

"How?"

"How! By putting on our dress-clothes, going to the dining-room, and engaging him in conversation over a most interesting topic--'The Merchant of Venice'."

The dining room was quite a crush, for passengers were wandering all about, talking, getting acquainted, and chatting with those they had met earlier in the day; hardly anyone was seated. Holmes pointed out the Shakespearean actor to me--a rather tall man with a wonderfully mobile, expressive face, a refined air, and thick brown hair just beginning to grey, sitting at a table with a woman across from him.

"He is called William Hooker," said he. "As I understand, he is, like ourselves, taking a relief from toil--at his wife's insistence; she says he is overworked." He looked at me sideways, one eyebrow raised; and as I refused to rise to the bait, he continued. "We shall have no difficulty in bringing up the 'Merchant of Venice', as he is apparently quite mad about the subject. My last word is, do be subtle in looking him over." He spun upon his heel and wended his way through the throng with quick, light steps, I following. As he passed by the actor he gave him not a glance, but accidentally dropped his stick, which unfortunately rolled under Hooker's table, coming to rest with a slight _thunk_ against one of the legs, nearest the actor.

A little smile flickered over his face as he went to retrieve it. The man at the table, responding to my friend's light tap upon the shoulder, looked up with a politely inquiring gaze.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Hooker," said Holmes, in his blandest voice, "but I clumsily dropped my stick, and it seems to have disappeared under your table. If I could trouble you to--"

"Not at all, sir," said Hooker courteously, bending down to retrieve Holmes' escaping property, and handing it up. "It might happen to anyone. I do not believe that we have met before," he added, with a brief but scrutinising glance at Holmes' face, "but your face seems somehow familiar. Pardon me if I am mistaken."

"Not at all," said Holmes, and handed the actor his card.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." The latter glanced at it and back up with an amused smile upon his dark, expressive face. "I have heard of you before. And this, I suppose, is Doctor Watson?"

I nodded.

"The faithful chronicler!" he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "I enjoy your writings immensely, sir. From what I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes," Hooker's charcoal-grey eyes darted another appraising glance at my companion, "you would have made a fine actor yourself. But dear me, how rude of me! I have forgotten to introduce you to my wife. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, meet my lawfully wedded wife, Violet, and the best companion that ever man had."

"How do you do, gentlemen," said Mrs. Hooker. She was a tiny woman, with pale blue eyes, a round childlike face, and hair the colour of corn silk. Now she smiled up at us engagingly, showing pearly white teeth. "Do sit down, gentlemen," said she. "I hope that you are learned in the world of theatre; it is the only topic that will interest my husband. He has been bored the entire voyage, and his fidgeting makes me quite nervous."

"I fear," Hooker addressed us, "that I am too focused upon my profession to think of anything else. It is only at my wife's insistence that I am taking a rest at all; otherwise I should have remained in London and worked upon my script."

"I understand perfectly," remarked Holmes, with a very strange air of intensity. And then, lightly, "To change the subject, however, I have heard that you are interested in Shakespeare."

"Oh, yes," said the actor eagerly. "I admire them all, but the 'Merchant of Venice' in particular. Do you prefer comedies, tragedies, or histories?"

"I admit that I rather fancy 'The Merchant of Venice', though I am not certain whether one would classify the 'Merchant of Venice' as a comedy or a tragedy. Certainly Shylock's demand was rather comical, though it would have been somewhat tragic had his scheme been carried out."

"A pity it was not; it was such a very clever plan," said the actor with forceful animation, sitting up in his chair in his intensity of feeling. "I cannot believe that Shakespeare wrote such an ending. The Jew was the most brilliant character in the play--except perhaps his daughter; and I do think that he had more wit than even she."

"But what would it profit Shylock if he were indeed to get his pound of flesh?" Holmes countered aggressively.

"Well, it would be a more dramatic conclusion, for one, and an interesting variation, for another. You must have observed how the Bard of Avon always has good--whatever _good_ may be--triumph over evil in the end."

"I really have not noticed," answered Holmes, who, being in almost total ignorance of literature, was completely out of his depth. "You must admit, however, that such a finale would disappoint the audience. Well, my friend and I have some business of importance to conclude. We must really be getting on. Thank you for a most interesting discussion."

"Thank _you,_" said the actor, shaking hands. "I do hope you enjoy your trip."

"Half-mad, but utterly amusing," was Holmes' verdict upon William Hooker when we were out of the dining area and strolling once more upon the upper deck. "He seemed quite guileless and harmless. From the drift of his remarks, it seems that he had been merely considering writing an alternative ending to the play, and not enacting one. Though one should have a hard time of trying to discern an actor's true feelings, for patently obvious reasons. Some much more conclusive evidence than his behaviour was at once obvious to me, however. Did you take a good look at that fellow's boots?"

"No."

"Boots first, Watson. Always shoes and trouser knees; they are the most revealing of all articles of clothing. His told me that he was innocent. I felt that he was from the first, but the coincidence was rather striking."

"Holmes, you speak in enigmas."

"On the contrary, nothing could be clearer. I have two chains. One has been proven false. The other rings true--a chain long enough and strong enough to hang a man, Watson. But we need more than circumstantial evidence." His voice was low and quick. "We need something to convince those unimaginative and inartistic people who make up a British jury."

"What do you propose to do, then?"

"Turn burglar," was the astonishing reply. "We have a night of criminal activities before us, Watson."

His calm, matter-of-fact statement startled me not a little. "For heaven's sake, Holmes," I cried, "who are we burgling?"

"A man that _you _should not have suspected." His tone was accusatory.

"Oh, so it is a man, at least?"

"Quite so. An extraordinary man, furthermore. Will you look at that sky!"

I turned and gazed out over the restless, lead-coloured sea, my eyes absently taking in the sullen waves slapping against the side of the ship. The air had been growing ever thicker and more oppressive, until it was positively stifling; and there was an electric tingle in the atmosphere. The mountainous cloud I had noted earlier had now grown into a great green thunderhead, and glowered menacingly upon the horizon, an ominous rumble of thunder announcing the quickly shortening distance between it and the ship. There was a rift in it, through which the light of the setting sun poured in a crimson stream, like blood from a wound. Holmes watched the quick flashes of lightning for some time, the sunset casting a hellish glow upon his sharp, eager face, and then he sighed.

"It is going to be a violent one, Watson." He spoke without turning, a thrill in his voice. His adventurous nature was always excited by danger of any kind, whether natural or man-made. "I wonder if they let landsmen up on deck to brave out the storm."

"Never mind the storm," I said; "what about this murderer? Who is he?"

Holmes turned then, the violent reddish light casting dark palls across his angular face, his eyes in shadow.

"It is John Nelson."

I was incapable of speech for a long moment. When I regained my voice, it was to splutter, "But--but--in heaven's name, Holmes, consider the evidence! The murderer wore a size eleven boot, whereas I distinctly recall Nelson saying that he wore a size nine!"

"So did the murderer," snapped Holmes; "--at any rate, his _feet_ were size nine, though his _boot _was size eleven. The prints told me as much."

"Do you mean to say that he wore a size eleven purposely to mislead you?" I exclaimed.

"Precisely. The murderer left an excellent set of footprints while running across the room. Now, though the toe of the boot was where it ought, the weight of the man's toes was much too short to have really fitted the boot. Therefore the fellow was wearing large boots. An elegantly simple device, Watson, in keeping with the rest of the individual."

"But surely, Holmes, Nelson is not the only man aboard with a size nine foot?"

"No, but other data strengthens the case against him."

"Such as--?"

"Well, the cup of tea, for example."

"The _tea_?"

"Quite. Good heavens, Watson, how could you fail to notice the tea? It has immense significance. You have no doubt observed that if you leave the bag to steep in a cup tea for a long amount of time, the waterline--or, shall we say, the tealine--leaves a brownish stain round the rim of the cup. Knowledge of all sorts comes in useful to the investigator, and I have experimented with this method of time telling until I can place the time when it was brewed within the hour with a decent amount of accuracy. The tea was brewed not more than four hours ago since we discovered it. At first, I considered this revelation to be of no importance, until it suddenly struck me that if the _murderer himself_ had brought the tea in to his victim's room, I could ascertain who ordered tea within that time span and so thin out our list of suspects considerably. I therefore went down to the galley to interrogate the cook. Imagine my feelings, Watson, when I heard that Nelson had ordered tea within that time, and had, for some reason or other, not returned his cup! Of course he could not, since it was locked in Ruskin's bedroom; we had ordered nothing to be touched, as you recall. It was the man's one slip in an otherwise perfectly planned crime, that tea. If it were not for that one happy fact I am not sure that I should ever have caught him."

"You have not caught him yet, Holmes," I reminded him. "And just how do you propose to go about this business of doing so?"

"Well, we shall have to get the fellow out of his room one way or another, and keep him out for some time so as to ensure us against interruption." He thought for an instant and then snapped his fingers. "I have just the thing. You remember, Watson, the very ancient device of the pretended pursuit of the wrong man? We shall afford our friend Nelson some immense entertainment by fixing our suspicions upon William Hooker. Nelson can be sent round to ask some discreet questions of that individual, and while he is thus occupied we shall be rummaging about in his room. How is that?"

"But if he becomes suspicious, and returns before his time?"

"Very good, Watson," said Holmes, smiling. "You really are most brilliant this evening. We shall tell him that he must keep the actor out of the way for some time, as we are going to search the _actor's_ room. And if he is still uneasy, and comes in upon us, we shall be armed. I trust that you have brought your revolver?"

"Of course."

"Excellent! Then let us go down belowdecks and search out our friend Nelson."

"Do you suppose that he has a swordstick?" I asked.

"No," said Holmes, nonchalantly; "I checked it, you see, this morning. I knew a good sleight-of-hand artist when I was young, and he tutored me until I was quite as skilled as he was."

"But there are other knives than those contained in sticks."

"Yes indeed, which is why we are obliged to search the man's room. Oh, hello, Mr. Nelson."

The man had come suddenly out from a side-passage and nearly run into us.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I trust that you have progressed in your inquiries?"

"I have," said Holmes quietly. "Matters are coming to a head; and I may need your assistance."

"I am ready to serve at any time."

"Well then. Are you well up in your Shakespeare? Can you carry on an intelligent conversation with someone about his plays? I wish to take a clandestine look at that actor's room, and I need you to keep him out of the way for a little."

"What actor?"

"A man called William Hooker--a tall dark man--"

"Oh yes, the fellow who was raving about the 'Merchant of Venice' the other day. I don't mind admitting to you," Nelson took a quick glance around and lowered his voice, "that he seemed to me to be highly suspicious. In answer to your question, however, I know as much about Shakespeare as any man with a classical education; and I trust that I shall manage to keep our Mr. Hooker occupied for half-an-hour at least. Will that serve?"

"Eminently," said Holmes smoothly. "We shall join you after we are finished."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes. Just spare me five minutes while I go and fetch my umbrella; it's going to rain, and I have no wish to get a soaking," and with that he strolled off, whistling.

"I wonder if that man knows anything is in the wind," said Holmes, staring after him. "If he does, however, he would not dare desert the post we have given him, for fear of exciting our suspicion. At any rate, he will be out of the way for at least a quarter of an hour. Come along, Watson, we must get our tools of trade." He set off down the hall at a swift pace, and went directly to his room. There he hauled his carpetbag out from a corner, and rummaged through it until a small, flat black case came to light. This he opened, and displayed the shining tools within, attached neatly to the sides by means of elastic bands. There were a few slim knives like scalpels, a piece of wire, and many shafts of pointed steel, varying in size, some hooked at the end, and some straight. Holmes held them to the light one by one, watching the highlights run up and down the smooth metal with narrowed eyes that reflected the cold gleam of the tools. Finally he closed it with a snap, and turned to me with a tight smile.

"It is a lovely set," he said. "I got it from a--professional acquaintance--of mine under rather curious circumstances." He appeared lost in thought for a moment or two, and then he came briskly back to earth. "You had best fetch your revolver now."

In a very few minutes he was peering cautiously round the doorjamb; and, as no-one was in sight, he whisked out of the room and down the hall, with his quick light feet as noiseless as a cat's. All my nerves were on edge at this brazen lawbreaking under and among many eyes; how on earth should we explain our conduct if we were caught?

"Don't slink," hissed Holmes. "You shall attract attention, and that is the one thing above all that must not happen. Ah, here we are. Now, you shall stand guard, and if you see anyone coming start whistling."

"What shall I whistle?"

"Anything! I cannot be bothered." He shot a quick glance around, then pulled the wire from his pocket and set to work.

I surveyed the quiet beige and red passageway; all was silent. Now and again there came sounds of movement from the other rooms, but not one person appeared. Then there was a sudden sharp snick from behind me, and the ponderous door creaked on its hinges even as I turned. Holmes stood with his back to me, one hand upon the doorjamb, peering into the dark room, his outline dramatically silhouetted against the backdrop of blackness. Then he turned to me, and gave a gesture to come forward; I did so, and a moment later we were in the room. The door swung silently closed behind us. In the semi-gloom I could discern Holmes pulling candles and matches from his pockets. One of the tapers he handed to me, and then lit it. The leaping flame gave a slight but warm light to the room, and threw our shadows in dark relief onto the wall. Holmes applied the wick of his candle to mine, and in a moment it was lighted also. He turned and set it on the bureau, then spoke softly.

"Let us hurry. The more we linger, the more uneasy he will become. Search everywhere but do not disarrange anything. I pray that he will not notice any unusual footsteps on the carpet."

He threw himself down upon the floor and felt under the furniture, then started pulling out the drawers of the bureau, all in utter silence, his movements furtive but swift, like a man I had once seen steal a watch from another's pocket.

Nelson's suitcase held nothing more than clothes and a toiletries, and one large cut-throat razor, which was too short to have inflicted such wounds upon the dead man. Nor was there anything concealed between the mattresses of the bed; nothing behind the bureau. I was bending to retrieve a knickknack where I had knocked it to the floor when there came a sound which sent a chill to my heart: the sound of a key being turned in the door.

Holmes darted across the room, dashed out both our candles, caught up his tools, clutched me by the arm in a grip like a vice, and bundled me behind the headboard of the bed. The next moment his long legs disappeared beneath the bed, just before the door opened, and the owner of the room entered. There was a short period of silence, during which I wondered how Holmes and I were going to get out of the room without being caught, before Nelson's voice came to our ears.

"You may come out from under the bed, Mr. Holmes," it said; "and you can show yourself too, Dr. Watson."

I caught my breath and held it, waiting for Holmes' lead, but an instant after this extraordinary speech I heard a scuffling noise, and my friend pushed himself out of his hiding place. As I stepped out from behind the headboard I could see him calmly arranging his rumpled collar, as if it was nothing out of the common to be caught by a suspected murderer while burgling his room. Nelson stood with his hands upon his hips, glaring at him.

"May I ask," said he, in a quiet, menacing tone, "what you are doing here?"

"Can you not guess?" Holmes riposted. "We are searching your room."

"Well," snapped Nelson, "you shan't find anything, that is all. You have not a shred of evidence against me."

"I have more than you know, Mr. John Nelson," said Holmes, in a soft, dangerous voice. "I have, for instance, the cup of tea which you left in Mr. Theodore Ruskin's room before you slaughtered him."

"Tea! What rubbish. What of the footprints? Were they not size eleven, and do I not take a size nine?"

"I said to Doctor Watson, and I say to you, that although the boots themselves were size eleven, the wearer had size nine feet."

"I suppose," said Nelson, with an expression of weary patience, "that you are under the impression that I am the only man with size nine feet aboard the ship."

"No," said Holmes, "but you were the only man on the night of the murder who did not return the empty cup of tea he had ordered. Have you any explanation for that?"

Nelson stared at my friend, and then down at his feet. "You cannot get any jury in the world to believe that," he muttered.

"I can when I find the murder weapon," said Holmes, his jaw tightening.

This phrase seemed inexplicably to relieve some of the man's tension, for his posture visibly relaxed. "Well, then, look all you want," he said, sweeping his arm in a grandiloquent gesture to indicate the whole room. "I assure you that you won't find it."

Holmes did not answer immediately. He was staring at the big black umbrella which lay upon the floor where Nelson had dropped it.

"Are you certain of that?" he asked, his voice cold. "Are you absolutely confident, Mr. Nelson?" He darted toward the umbrella, but Nelson was the nearer, and snatched it up. Suddenly there was a wild, reckless gleam in his eyes.

"So!" he said, swinging round and levelling it at us. "You are very clever, Mr. Holmes--too clever for your own good."

"Give me the umbrella," said Holmes, with a barely concealed threat in his voice.

"Give it to you? No. But if you wish to _see_ it--here it is!"

With a lightning movement his hand slid up the shaft of the umbrella. Instead of unfurling it, a gleaming steel knife, eighteen inches long, double-edged, and razor sharp, slid out of the black material which swathed it with a metallic slither. I could see Holmes' eyes widen at the sight.

"Of course," said Nelson, introspectively, "of course I shall hang for murder. There is no other course. They shall take me out and put the sack over my head and the rope round my neck, and murmur meaningless prayers at me until the trapdoor drops out from under me...and I shall hear my neck crack. Unless, that is..." he ran his finger along the edge of the razor-sharp steel and then held it up to us. It sent a chill up my back to see the deep gash in his flesh, and the reptilian way in which he had caused it. He saw my feelings in my face, and smiled, and then stared back down at the blood trickling down his hand and staining his shirtcuff. "Unless..."

"Put that thing down," said Holmes, sharply. Nelson smiled again.

"You are a mind-reader as well, Mr. Holmes? Tell me, as a matter of opinion, which is the more honourable way to die...hanging or suicide? Or murder-suicide?"

"Put the knife down!"

"Not yet, Mr. Holmes." The blade aimed for my friend's chest. I cocked my revolver, but Holmes shook his head, and I lowered it.

"Why did you stop him, Mr. Holmes? Well, well, no matter. I care not a whit whether you shoot me--but I wish to tell you my story. This man Theodore Ruskin ruined my life. We used once to be great companions, long ago; over to each other's houses, dinners together. That was before I knew his true nature; before he met my only child, my daughter. You did not know, Mr. Holmes, that I had a daughter, did you? Her name was Emily, and she was the sweetest thing God ever made. This man took her by force, and used her and threw her away. But she was with child, and she died bearing it. You see now, do you not?

"Of course I could say nothing; I had no proof. We had kept Emily's pregnancy from public knowledge, to cover her shame. No-one knew of it but she and I, for I am a widower, and within nine months I was the only one who knew it--besides him. He, the man who had killed my innocent girl by his filthy promiscuous ways. I would kill him and even the score. Not then; someday. Revenge is a dish best served cold, you know. And I thought to wait until suspicion could be diverted to someone else. Then there came this political deal of his. There were many against it; I felt that in all his enemies--and he had many--I should be overlooked. And so I followed him aboard this ship. I took precautions with me: large boots to muddle my footprints, overshoes on top of those, and my custom-made umbrella knife," the deadly steel tip stabbed a few inches nearer Holmes' chest. My friend jumped back, and Nelson laughed again.

"I shan't hurt you, Mr. Holmes--at least, not just yet. I want to tell you everything. This knife of mine is most useful. One can open the umbrella to shield oneself from spattering blood, which you will agree is an advantage. I lay low for a few days, watching him, and then last night I made my way to his room. I brought with my cup of tea, so as to appear casual--you were clever to notice the tea. And I brought my umbrella.

"He did not recognise me. It had been many years, and I had changed: my face was lined, and I had grown this moustache. But I reminded him of who I was, and who he was, and what he had done to an innocent girl. I had the satisfaction, you know, of hearing him beg for mercy before I killed him. He even grabbed at my umbrella as I stabbed him, and his dead grip was so powerful that when I tore it from him it ripped the cloth. That was the way Theodore Ruskin was--grasping for what was not his.

"I felt cheerful after that--exhilarated. Murder is as intoxicating as liquor, I think. I meant to have some fun with whoever found the body. I remembered that silly actor, raving about Shakespeare. It was he who put the idea into my head. Besides, I had seen a scale in the room; that made up my mind. I carried out what Shylock had failed to do. You must admit that the crime was more puzzling with those lovely touches, would you not say so?"

My skin was beginning to crawl at the man's light, husky, expressionless voice. I glanced at Holmes, and saw nothing but fascination upon his face.

"Go on," he said.

"I cleaned my knife--blood, after all, will tarnish metal, and I did not want that. I did all in the order you said--it amused me profoundly to watch you discern my movements that night, and to see you get them so _accurately_!--and then I went abovedeck and threw my boots into the sea. I was safe, I thought.

"What should I do next? I wondered what people would say when they found the body. Then I had a flash of inspiration. Why should I not find the body myself? I had seen you earlier, Mr. Holmes; I wished to see you at work. I later regretted the impulse, but by then it was too late. I had knocked on your door and led you to the scene of the crime to see what you made of it. Never, I had thought, never would you suspect the man who had alerted you to the murder."

"It was the tea," said Holmes, "which betrayed you."

"Ah, yes. A bad slip, that, but really it does not matter to me." The tip of the deadly blade, which Nelson had allowed to droop a few inches during the recital of this extraordinary tale, now slashed back up to point at my friend's chest. "You see, I have you both at my mercy. Ah, you are going to shoot me after all, Doctor Watson?" he added, as I aimed my pistol at his head. "Please do. It is a better death than hanging; but to play devil's advocate, is it a legal?"

"You are one to talk of legalities," said Holmes, sardonically. Even with a self-confessed murderer holding a weapon within three inches of his chest, he still retained that icy coolness and jaunty cynicism for which he was remarkable.

The blade licked forward like the tongue of a snake. "Move a little to the right, Mr. Holmes."

"You shan't stab me in the back," said Holmes coldly, squaring his shoulders. Then to me: "No, Watson. Not yet."

"Not yet," Nelson mocked. "Not yet. We must preserve him until he can stand in the dock and have twelve men condemn him to death. Move a little to the right, Mr. Holmes."

If Holmes capitulated, he would be directly in the line of my pistol, his body serving as a shield for Nelson's. We all three knew this, and yet the blade was inching ever nearer Holmes' chest; too close for him to take a backward leap and still avoid that deadly razor-edge.

"No," said Holmes.

The tip of the knife pricked lightly at the area of frock-coat over his heart. "No?"

"Put the knife down, Nelson," I said in as authoritative a voice as I could muster, "or I swear I shall shoot you down without compunction."

"Ah, but are you certain you can fire before I thrust this knife into your friend's chest?"

"Nelson, are you mad?" Holmes' voice had shifted half an octave higher.

"No; I am a cornered rat, Mr. Holmes; and I wish you to be so placed that you will offer no interference when I turn the knife against myself."

"Suicide," Holmes spat, with a sudden acid in his tone, "is a coward's way out."

"You speak in the manner of one who has considered it at some point. Have you?"

There was a short silence as the two men stared at each other.

"Who has not?" said Holmes at last, in a falsely light voice.

"I have hit you," crowed Nelson. "I have hit you! Your whole attitude cries it to the heavens."

There was a sudden flicker of fury in my friend's expressive eyes, and his jaw clenched visibly.

"But we all have our little--hypocrisies, shall we say? What is right for us is not right for others. To each man his pet self-deception--"

He never finished the sentence, for it was then that I sprang forward and brought the butt of my pistol down upon his head with all my strength, dodging to avoid the wildly slashing blade. I was not entirely successful, for it cut into my wrist, but I had escaped a far worse wound: I had thrown up my arm to protect my throat. With my other hand I grasped the umbrella near the handle and flung it across the room. I had the advantage, also, of having trained for hand-to-hand combat in the Army, and so, after using the pistol butt once more, I soon had Nelson pinned to the floor with his arms behind his back. I used my necktie to secure his wrists and my belt as a pinion for his ankles, then turned to my friend. "Holmes?"

He was sitting on the floor with a crimsoned hand clamped tightly over a rapidly spreading stain on his upper arm. At my voice a white, drawn face was turned to me, and he said, "A mere scratch."

"Nonsense. Let me look at it." I pried his fingers away and pulled off his coat and shirt.

It was a clean gash, as though done with a surgeon's scalpel; deep, but not wide or torn, and, one would think, not prone to infection. I took out my handkerchief in an attempt to wipe some of the blood away, but Holmes drew back.

"Never mind my arm," he said, irritably. "We cannot afford to let this man lie here unguarded. Go to the captain and tell him that we have caught the Shakespearean murderer."

John Nelson, when he regained consciousness, would have discovered himself to be in his own room; for there he was imprisoned, for lack of a better gaol-cell, until the voyage should come to an end. An officer was placed outside the door, to be constantly on guard, and all sharp articles were removed from the prisoner's possession, as well as all coat hooks, lamp hooks, and any other object from which one could conceivably suspend a rope. Soon after this had been carried out the threatening storm had broken, and the captain had had no more to say to us. I had bandaged and stitched Holmes's wound, and now we sat in his room, both silent and listening to the crack and rumble of the thunder. Holmes had been darting little glances at me from time to time, as if nervous and ill at ease. Finally he spoke.

"Watson--"

"Yes?"

"Earlier to-night, when that man was holding a knife to my chest...I did not want to shoot him, Watson; and at any rate we could not, for he was in such a position as to kill me before you could press the trigger. I was, to speak plainly, at my wit's end what to do." He stopped and eyed me again.

"Well?"

"But you rescued the situation, Watson; you knew at precisely what point he was off his guard and at what time to leap in. You--" he broke off and turned his head away, his voice so low I had to strain to hear it-- "you saved my life."

"Think nothing of it," said I.

His fingers touched the back of my hand. "Thank you, Watson."

For one moment he was nearer to showing emotion than I had ever yet seen him; the next, he had retreated into the cold, reserved manner which made so many consider him a machine rather than a man.

"Well," he said briskly, "I cannot predict the future; but I think, Watson, from what I have seen of it thus far, that this holiday will be a splendid one."

_This period includes the case of...the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, which so nearly cost us both our lives..._

_--The Norwood Builder_


End file.
